


Making Love Out of Nothing At All

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-03-15
Updated: 2001-03-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:25:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: This is a parallel universe ... where Scully is abducted ... by life.





	Making Love Out of Nothing At All

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Making Love Out of Nothing At All by Mik

TITLE: Making Love Out of Nothing At All  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: This is a parallel universe ... where Scully is abducted ... by life.  
ARCHIVE: Anywhere as long as my name and addy stay attached.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ...  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: This is an AU, very vague spoilers for multiple episodes, nothing current.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.  
Author's Notes: What you want isn't always what you need. (Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.)  
If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop. If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Making Love Out of Nothing At All  
by Mik

We all get those moments of brilliant clarity ... usually in hindsight ... where we KNOW something wonderful could have happened, but didn't. I had one as I watched her board that plane. Oh, mine wasn't so much hindsight. I'd known for years that she made more sense out of my life just putting her hand on my sleeve than all my wild beliefs and witch hunts. Still, watching her leave was like seeing everything I believed in crumble to dust. 

I've always wanted her, but always held back. The Cause, the Search, the TRUTH meant more to me then, and she was too important as a voice of reason to let her become the voice in my night, the voice of passion. And there she was, getting on a plane and going back to California, to live a life ... a damned life ... and leaving me behind.

I gave her one last smile, one last seemingly insouciant wave and let her disappear. I knew my lower lip was already struggling not to quiver, and tears made my eyes smart. I was now alone. Utterly. One by one, the pawns on my chessboard of life had been claimed, and now the Queen had been checked and mated, and the board was empty. I was empty... so empty, the beating of my heart echoed hollow in the shell of the man she left behind.

I admit, masochist that I am, I stayed to watch the plane roll away from the terminal and taxi off to the runway. When it was out of sight, and all I could see was my reflection in the window, a smear of her lipstick on my cheek, I pulled away and fell back into reality. 

I don't drink, not much, not often, because when I do, I hear Bill Mulder's voice coming out of my mouth and I don't like that. But this night called for more than sunflower seeds and porn. I turned off the expressway and into a local establishment. It must have been a slow night because no one gave me a second look as I sought and slid into a booth in the back, slumped down miserably, and let my head fall into my hands. 

A few moments later, a smoky smelling glass of scotch appeared before me, and I'm quite certain I didn't even order it telepathically. I lifted my head and searched the room. No one acknowledged my querying glance, so I lifted the glass, tipped it toward the room in general, and sipped. The heat was good. I waited 'til it hit my gut, wondering if it would incinerate my heart on the way down. Another sip. And then another. 

Someone put a song on the jukebox. Air Supply. Oh, one of those mournful ballads of the eighties. Just the thing for a good long howl. But Agent Mulder doesn't cry. He catches the eye of the bartender and indicates that another of the same would not be spurned, and lets his head fall back into his hands.

It became a lovely routine. A sad song, another scotch and a muddled stare into the past and all the wasted chances, the near misses, the many times her lips brushed over my skin. I could almost taste her in the glass and I tilted it back to let the last precious drop roll down my throat. Starting tomorrow, Dana Katherine Scully would no longer exist, but for tonight, I would close my eyes and dream of her in my arms.

I started to stagger to my feet when I felt a hand at my arm. "You're not driving, Agent."

I looked up. Oh, shit. Just what I needed. Walter Skinner, Champion of the People, the one who helped her get transferred. Narrowing my eyes I tried to shake his hand away. "I'm fine."

He held fast. "Give me your keys."

I said a certain word. We all know what I said. It was the kind of word that got you detention in school, but now they say it on prime time television.

He just shook his head. "Your keys, Agent."

I ignored him, tossing money on the table. "What are you doing here?"

"I had a feeling you'd show up here," he said. His voice was ... I don't know ... I think if I'd been sober it would have been eerie. It was calm and confident. And ... kind? 

"Wow, you can see the future, can you? If you're so omnipotent, why did I always have to fill out all that damned paperwork for you all the time?"

He chuckled. I think. It was a sound, anyway, and it didn't seem threatening. "It's the first place that sells alcohol between Dulles and your apartment," he answered, and with his other hand started patting my pockets for car keys.

"Getting fresh with me, Wally?" I jeered, shifting my body and my pockets away from him. But that was a mistake. His big hand brushed over my crotch and we both stood still. I swallowed and shoved a fist into one pocket and produced keys. 

He took them and put them in his jacket pocket. "Come on."

I stayed still. "Where?"

"Home, I presume, unless you plan to spend the night bar hopping." He turned and faced me. "If that was your plan, your technique is wrong. One drink at a time, that way you don't waste yourself in one bar." 

I nodded. He was standing too close. But he does that. "I'll keep that in mind."

He looked down at me and there was a hint of pity in his eyes. "Come on, Mulder. I'll drive you home."

Well, there it was. I could be a stupid, drunken prick and insist that I didn't need help, or I could recognize help when it was offered and accept it graciously, for once in my life. If I had accepted her graciously ... I shook my head.

"I'm not going to let you drive, Mulder," he said firmly.

"Oh, I know." A lump. A lump that represented eight years of unshed tears. A deep breath. Here's to the new Mulder. The new Mulder who takes advantages of the chances offered to him. "Thanks."

He seemed to be surprised at my ready acquiescence. It took him a moment to move. "This way," he said gruffly, but he let me walk out under my own power, him behind me, our coats thrown over his arm. 

He put me in the passenger side of his car, his personal car, not the FBI issue. You'd think a guy who's somewhere near the top of one of the most powerful organizations in American government would drive American, but this was Germany's finest. I wasn't too far gone not to appreciate the surroundings. I let my head fall back on the supple leather of the headrest and pointed. "Home, Jeeves."

He got the car out onto the nearly empty road without making me nauseated, and after a mile or two of silence, flicked me a glance. "Could you use some coffee?"

"What I could use is ..." I stopped myself. This was the new me, remember? "Yeah, coffee would be good."

He was quiet after that. But even the silence was filled with ... I don't know ... an aura. There was a whisper of commiseration that came without a word, a glance. He felt bad for me. He understood my loss. At least, he thought he did. 

I don't think I was all that surprised when we ended up at his place. I think all along I knew that's where we were going. Skinner's a born administrator, and he functions best in his administration. His condominium would be the next best thing to taking me back to his office to sober me and counsel me.

He guided me toward his door without touching me and stood beside me, working his key into the locks, as I leaned against the wall. Pushing the door open wide, he gave me another one of those almost smiles. "You look like shit, Mulder. Have you slept this week?"

I didn't even try a comeback. I sort of slithered into his foyer and stood still while he put our coats on hangers in the closet. With one of those big hands on my back, he moved me into the living room and to a long, inviting leather sofa. Just a little push and I kind of flopped down, and stayed.

I must have drifted off for only a second later he was standing over me with a steaming mug. I opened my eyes and looked up at him. "Did I fall asleep?" I asked stupidly.

"Something like that," he said, and put the cup on a coaster in front of me. "This will help." He watched me lean forward and breathe in the steamy scent. "Do you want to talk about it?" he offered.

Again I struggled with arrogance and settled for a simple shake of the head.

He sighed heavily and, shifting his slacks, settled beside me. "I know you loved her, Mulder."

"Love," I snapped. "It isn't past tense. It didn't end just because she's g-gone." Damn it. Not in front of him.

He put his hand on my back and it was warm and strong. I was grateful for it. It was like a rail that kept me from plunging over the edge. "I know you love her," he amended quietly. 

I nodded and picked up the cup, and held it to me. It was warm. Filled me with warmth. God, I missed her.

He left his hand on my back, shifting it now and again in what might almost be a supportive caress. The tears welled up in my eyes but didn't spill. Damn it, she offered to stay. All I had to do was tell her she meant more than the Bureau, the Cause, the TRUTH. But I didn't. I put on that careless smile and told her to do what she had to do. 

My throat hurt and I took half the cup in one desperate gulp. He made it strong and it was too hot and I gasped and coughed, and his hand patted gently. "Why?" I asked him, as the tears spilled down.

He looked at me, shaking his head helplessly. He didn't understand the question. 

"Why are you being so nice to me?" It wasn't the question I wanted to ask. I wanted to wrap my hands around his throat just as I wrapped them around that cup and demand to know why he let her go. Or maybe I wanted to know why I let her go.

"Contrary to your beliefs, Agent, I have a high regard for your skills, for your principles, for you."

I snorted into the coffee cup.

"I do," he repeated levelly. "I knew her decision was going to hurt you deeply. Frankly," he drew a deep breath and reached for his own cup, his left hand staying on my back, "I'm surprised that she made the decision she did." He shot me a glance which I think might have been unprofessionally curious. "I was pretty certain you'd talk her out of it."

"Shows you that you're not so smart, after all." I put my cup down and leaned forward, glad his hand stayed with me as I rested my arms on my thighs and looked into a past he couldn't see. Pain, injury that was as emotional as physical, loss and fear of loss, love unrequited, and pride unbowed. "I want the best for her. It was time for her to go on." I swallowed against the lump in my throat and the scalded place on my tongue. "What was best for her wasn't necessarily what was best for me."

"Seldom is," he agreed softly.

I risked a look. I'd forgotten he'd seen his own share of loss. "This can't be good for you," I began. I started to stand. "I'll just --"

"Stay. You can sleep on the sofa, and I'll take you to get your car in the morning." Suddenly he was administrating again. 

I didn't feel like arguing. "Okay."

He got up and moved around. I could hear him here then there as I lost myself in loss. Eventually, he brought me a pillow, a blanket and a pair of sweats. 

I took them from him. "Thanks. This is ..." I couldn't say it.

He ruffled my hair. "Part of the job, Agent," he said gruffly. 

"Yeah." I put the pillow down at my side and made a great show of punching the pillow into shape. "The job." The damned job. Everything's about the damned job. I quit.

"Mulder?" There was a question in the way he said my name. I'm not sure what it was, but he was asking it.

I didn't look up. "Yes, sir?"

The query was gone. "Bathroom's through there. Extra toothbrushes are in the top drawer. 'Night."

I nodded, still not looking up.

He went upstairs. The house was silent. I could hear my heart echoing again. 

The plane spiraled out of control, rushing toward the ground at a fatal speed. Inside the cabin was a pantomime of chaos, not a sound was heard from the open, screaming mouths of passengers, as loose articles, papers, cups, pillows, purses fluttered around like leaves on a breezy fall day. Only the redhead in the seat by the wing was calm. She watched the maw of eternity open before her with a curious fascination. One more thing to explore, one more thing to learn, an autopsy of a life at the moment of death.

"Sculllllleeeeeee."

"Agent." Rough hands holding me down.

"Oh, God, Scully." Clutching at the hands. "Get off that plane, Scully."

"Just a dream, Agent. Just a dream." The hands stopped holding me down. They just held me. "Only a very bad dream."

I was shaking. "I shouldn't have let her go."

"I know, Fox. I know."

Oh, those words. That gentle, empathetic indictment of my stupidity. I lost it. I began to sob. I let him pull me close, offer his mountain of a shoulder. I clung to him, weeping as I had never done in my life. Gone. She was gone. Even if that plane let down as lightly as a feather on a sunny San Diego morning, she was dead to me. Gone, out of my reach forever. I didn't let her go, I pushed her away. Oh, God, Scully.

"I'm all alone, now," I wept, grasping at him. "No one left."

"No, Fox. You'll never be alone."

I lifted my head, not caring that he could see the raw grief spilling from my eyes, from my heart. "She's gone."

"But I'm here."

I was the one who crashed. Hit the ground at such a speed that I was nothing but dust, disintegrated in his embrace, slipping through his fingers like sand. Oh, no. Not ... him.

His thumbs brushed tears from my cheeks almost tenderly. "I'm here," he promised.

The idea ... the hope ... "I loved her," I whispered, raggedly.

"I know." He pressed his mouth to mine. "Loved. Past tense." He kissed my brow. "I love you. That's the here and now."

I rested my cheek against his. A moment ago, I had nothing. And now I had something more than the empty echo of my heart. Could I call it love? I don't know ... but it was a beginning, a promise. It was another chance. What was that damned song tonight? Making love out of nothing at all. This was my chance to make something out of me. 

\- END -


End file.
